


Midnight Blues

by The_Plot_Bunny_Whisperer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anticlimactic, Background Pregnancy, Background Relationships, Dark Humor, Gen, Mentioned Gambling Over Souls, Non-Graphic Violence, Purgatory, Rebirth - New Life, Weirdness, multiple character death, ooc, questionable sanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plot_Bunny_Whisperer/pseuds/The_Plot_Bunny_Whisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It surprised everyone when Harry Potter died, including the one who killed him. Harry, however, doesn't know how to stay dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Prologue**

-

Red is an entirely underappreciated color, if you think about it. After all, it represents some of humanity’s most cherished ideals. Hate. Love. Anger. Courage. Loyalty.

Life.

Which is rather ironic, Harry mused, considering that the only time you would attribute the color red to life is when it was flowing thickly from your body to stain your bedroom floor.

Even now, he couldn’t blame his family. He could hate them, despise them, certainly - but not blame them. After all, the world of which they wanted nothing to do with was forced upon them without their consent, without being given a choice, and with very little explanation. Really, there were only two people he could place the blame on. Well, one, if he wanted to get technical.

After all, it was Albus Dumbledore’s decision not to put a stop to Tom Riddle before he could become Lord Voldemort. It was Albus Dumbledore’s war-weariness that made him decide to place the world’s salvation on an eighteen-month old baby moments after said baby lost his parents. It was Albus Dumbledore’s decision to place him with his obviously magic-hating relatives. It was Albus Dumbledore’s faith in love overpowering all that stopped him from looking in on said child during his formative years. It was Albus Dumbledore’s decision to keep sending him back there, even with proof that it was most certainly not a good environment for a magical child.

So really, Harry couldn’t blame his family. It wasn’t their fault Albus Dumbledore’s arrogance cost them a normal magic-free life.

Of course, it didn’t make the situation any less bitterly painful.

If it wasn’t for the blackness encroaching on his vision and the utter numbness that was his mind, he would find the look on his uncle’s face rather amusing. It was a strange combination of white, green and purple, like a deformed bruise that was spreading rapidly across his puffy cheeks. His beady eyes were comically wide, almost like in a cartoon, and unblinking. Harry couldn’t decide it was horror or smugness that filled the watery blue orbs, or if it was simply shock. Maybe it was all three.

Then again, Harry wasn’t in the position to care, exactly.

It was funny. He knew, instinctively, that he was dying. He knew nothing would stop it, not even if all the healers in St. Mungo’s were to apparate into his bedroom at that very moment. And by the tell-tale sound of apparition downstairs and his Aunt’s screams, someone apparently just had. And yet, all he could think about was that his schoolbooks were getting irreparably stained and hope that his family, or someone else, would at least have the decency to free Hedwig from her cage. And of course the color red.

Red really was such a beautiful color… but it didn’t matter anymore. Because only the black remained.

-

**Part One**

-

_“Albus! I told you, you senile old goat, I **told** you!” Minerva’s face was both pale with grief and red from tears and screaming. “They were never fit to care for… for… and **now** look! He’s **dead** , Albus, all because you didn’t listen to the warnings! **I told you!** ”_

_Albus remained unmoved from the position he had fallen into when the news arrived, slumped over the large oak table, his face buried in his wrinkled hands and looking to all the world as though he had been utterly defeated._

_Loud sobbing from one corner of room was the only sound for several moments as Hermione and Ginny clutched each other, shaking and crying into the other’s shoulder. Molly Weasley was laying down near them on a conjured blanket, having fainted not long after the news came from St. Mungo’s. Ron was sitting next to her holding her hand, pale and shaking, his eyes on the two girls a few feet away from him. In another corner, Remus sagged against the wall, and if looks could kill, Albus would have been long dead. Snape stood next to him, his face unusually blank._

_“You’ll go to hell for this, Albus, I assure you,” Minerva spat loathingly, “and I shall surely see you there for not having thought of checking on him myself.”_

_Albus flinched, as if struck, and those watching him were grimly satisfied to see the Great Albus Dumbledore break down and cry._

_-_

_“We gather here today to honor the life of Harry Potter, an honorable and noble young man. Though it was but a short life, he has accomplished many great and wonderful things. Here to speak for him, his best friend, Hermione Granger.”_

_Hermione looked regal and beautiful as she stood calmly from her seat and strode up to the podium. Though her face was pale and her eyes were red, her expression was calm, figure poised and straight, and her chin held high. She carried nothing with her, although those who knew her well knew she didn’t need anything. When it came to speaking about Harry, fancy words on a piece of parchment would never do justice._

_She took a moment to take in the small crowd. It consisted on only family and friends, just as Harry would have wanted it. She cleared her throat softly and began to speak._

_“Even though he hated the title, and the fame, and the fans, and the articles, Harry was a hero. We could all feel it in our bones, no matter how much he tried to deny it. When we were eleven, he saved my life. I’ll never forget that moment, when he and Ron burst into that bathroom and took on a troll to save a silly little bookworm they barely knew. I never thanked him for that. I never thanked him for showing me that even though I was Muggle-born, I didn’t need to prove myself to show my worthiness to be a witch. I never thanked him for showing me there was more to life than books and learning and cleverness._

_“He was strong, with a hero-complex a mile wide. Ron and I would joke with him and call it his “saving people thing”. I don’t think he really understood how strong he truly was. With all of the tragedy he has faced in his lifetime, he always managed to overcome it. He might have lost a bit of himself along the way, but at the end of the day the determination and drive remained in his eyes. I used to think he ran on pure adrenalin, but I know better now. He was able to do all those amazing, wonderful things because he believed in something greater than magic, greater than light or darkness, greater even than love. He believed in humanity. He never stopped believing that despite humanity’s flaws, the pure strength of human will would keep the world going._

_“Just as he would want us to keep going. I know that wherever he is right now, he’s happy. He’s probably feeling a bit guilty, as well. If there was a thing such as Perisher’s Guilt, I wouldn’t doubt in the least that Harry would have it. Despite the fact that he never **wanted** to be a savior, he felt it his **duty** to be one._

_“However, no matter how much of a hero he was, he would want us to remember him simply as Harry. Our friend, our brother, our son. Just Harry.”_

_-_

**_Death Eater’s Attack Diagon Alley  
_** JorgenBloomsager _reports_

_Six months after the announcement of Harry Potter’s death, Diagon Ally was invaded by dozens of black-robed wizards wearing the recognizable mask of You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters. Half of the ally was destroyed in the onslaught before the Ministry’s Aurors arrived. Many were injured and many more were killed in the ensuing battle._

_The Death Eaters were finally driven from the Ally by the Goblins as they failed to invade Gringotts, however the Ally was left with a heavy toll. At least twenty six people have been taken to St. Mungo’s emergency ward, and another forty-five are dead, including ten Aurors, three goblins, and seven Death Eaters. For a full list of the dead, refer to pages five and eight._

_We at the_ Daily Prophet _and no doubt yourselves are wondering: Is this only the beginning?_

_-_

**_Hogwarts, Closed?_** _  
_Rita Skeeter _reports_

_After the disaster that was the destruction of Diagon Ally in which no less than fifty-three lives were lost and the Ally shut down, many families have pulled their children from the supposedly safe halls of Hogwarts. Some have claimed that they no longer feel their children are safe in a school “that has allowed danger after danger” to befall the young students, including the rumor of a teacher possessed by the spirit of You-Know-Who five years ago._

_The great castle, once brimming with laughter and joy, now seems barren and cold with so many students having been pulled from its very halls. It’s been speculated that with the loss of more than half of its population, Hogwarts may be shutting down and sending the remaining students home as well._

_Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was unavailable for comment…_

_-_

**_Gruesome Scene at the Ministry of Magic_** _  
_Daily Prophet _special edition  
_ LionelKristoff _reports_

_Earlier this morning, the employees of the Ministry of Magic arrived to a gruesome scene displayed in the Ministry’s atrium. In place of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, destroyed in You-Know-Who’s duel with Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore during the attack on the ministry only five months ago, were the maimed and bloody corpses of five well-known Death Eaters. They had been strung up in a grisly caricature of the fountain itself, their bodies split open from chin to navel and their innards strewn about the floor._

_The Ministry has released this statement: “It is unknown who has committed this atrocious deed and who they are working for or if they are working alone. The Ministry is conducting a full investigation of this matter and Aurors will be on full guard at all hours. The deceased includes Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange, and the once thought to be deceased Peter Pettigrew.” (More on Pettigrew, pg. 4.)_

_An anonymous source has sent a letter to us at the_ Daily Prophet _that had this to say: “I thought it was a sick joke at first, an effort to boost the awareness of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named presence, but then I saw it myself. Written in the blood of the Death Eaters were the words, “Dark Wizards Be Forewarned.” It makes me rethink the safety of the Ministry and question whether or not I will be returning to work in case it should happen again.”_

_Is this the work of a rogue vigilante bent on the destruction of You-Know-Who’s forces, or is it a warning to all wizards? Only time will tell._

_-_

**_Midnight Vigilante Strikes Again_** _  
_Jorgen Bloomsager _reports_

_For the past two months since the gruesome discovery in the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium, the one known only as the Midnight Vigilante for his penchant to leave bloody and often brutal scenes in the middle of the night for the luckless wizards of Britain to find has been killing Death Eaters and known supporters seemingly at random. Today, the day that marks the one-year anniversary of the death of our savior, Harry Potter, and the grand reopening of Diagon Ally, is no different._

_Black boxes, disguised as gifts, have been circulating all night long, their contents leaving much to be desired. Nearly fifty wizards and witches have already reported to the Ministry with their faux gifts in tow only to reveal that the boxes contain the body parts and organs of several different wizards. It is uncertain for now exactly how many gifts were sent out nor is it known how many wizards have been slaughtered._

_The Ministry requests that all recipients of a black box of any size to not open said box and report immediately to the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Law Enforcement._

_It has been reported that Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, has released a constringent of specially trained Aurors whose sole task is to hunt down the mysterious Midnight Vigilante and bring him in for due justice. “This wizard may think he’s doing us a favor by ridding the world of You-Know-Who’s followers, but the horrible manner of which he has gone about it is getting out of hand,” Scrimgeour claimed. “This sick mockery of justice cannot be allowed to continue any longer, and we will not rest until the Vigilante is caught.”_

_Loyalties are torn among wizards with this new statement. Many agree with the Minister, however there are those who remain silent when questioned about their opinions on the matter…_

_-_

This wasn’t what he expected Hell to look like. Or even Heaven, for that matter.

He stood in a rather plain room with pale blue walls, a few tall filing cabinets, and a desk. Aside from a large window, the walls were bare. He couldn’t see anything outside of the widow, as it seemed to be tinted, but it was rather bright. Despite the size of the room, easily five times the size of his bedroom, there were only two chairs; a straight-backed metal chair before it, like one found in any office, and a comfortable leather chair behind it.

The chair behind the desk was occupied by a man that looked as though he belonged in a Muggle courtroom. Fancy-pressed suit, slicked-back hair, long black tie tucked beneath the folds of the jacket. He seemed to be working his way through a large stack of papers piled high in the tray marked ‘In’, and was probably doing so unsuccessfully if the emptiness of the ‘Out’ tray meant anything.

The man didn’t acknowledge him at all, and Harry had a feeling he shouldn’t speak or move until the man did so. So he stood there, quietly, for several minutes before anything happened at all. After a wait of what felt like hours, the man behind the desk finally marked something on the paper before him and placed it in the ‘Out’ tray, where it promptly disappeared and explained why the tray was empty. The man took another paper off the top of the ‘In’ pile and had just begun reading it when he spoke up.

“You’re much more polite than the others.” Harry blinked at him and didn’t reply. The man looked up at him and it was then Harry noticed that the man’s eyes were completely black, void of light or color of any kind. The man nodded in approval. “Braver, too. They usually demand answers almost as soon as they arrive.” The man then looked down at the paper before him, marking something off and signing it before placing that, too, into the ‘Out’ tray. He grabbed another paper, but didn’t look up again.

“My name doesn’t matter, so you won’t be getting one. I already know your name so don’t bother telling me what it is. You are, of course, wondering what you’re doing here, why you’re here, and how you got here. I’ll get to that in a moment, but first there are some things I need to explain. If you haven’t already guessed, you’re dead. There’s nothing you can do about it now, so tough shit. Why haven’t you sat down yet?” The man looked at him in annoyance, and Harry quickly took a seat.

“You are currently in Purgatory, specifically the Destiny Department. Every soul has over a thousand paths, otherwise known as Destiny Lines, their lives can follow. Their choices determine what paths they take that will eventually lead them to their deaths. Very rarely does someone have less than two thousand life-altering paths, considering that many people aren’t really all that important in the grand scheme of things. You have twenty-six. Also, on several times, someone else made your choice for you which screwed things up even more. That is why you’re here to see me.” Three more papers went into the ‘Out’ tray and promptly disappeared.

“My job is to fix the Destiny Lines that humans screw up. Unfortunately for you, however, dying at the hands of your uncle actually _was_ one of your Destiny Lines, which makes it even harder to fix and gives _me_ more work to do.” The mad glared at him, blaming him for his increased workload entirely. “This leaves you with three choices.

“One, we can reverse time and make it so you’ve survived, which will return you to your original Destiny Lines. Downside to that, however, is you’ll probably end up back here in another Earth year or two and we’d back at it again.

“Two, you can stay dead, which means that eventually your soul will be recycled and you’ll be reborn into anything from a human, to a cow, to a ficus. Don’t ask about the last one, sometimes the Shapers get really bored.

“Or three, because of your status as a Wronged Soul, you can sell your soul to the highest bidder in return for going back Earth long enough to exact revenge on those who have wronged you. Doing so, however, will mean that you will never be reborn; you will never get to start over with a new life and new memories. You will keep your memories and powers as they are, most likely gaining new ones depending on who “buys” your soul, and serve under your new master for all of eternity. Any questions?”

“What happens to the prophecy that was spoken about me before I was born?” The man looked up at him for a moment.

“Prophecies only exist to prove to mankind that Destiny Lines exist. They don’t actually mean anything, considering that those who find out they are under prophecy make their choices accordingly and end up following that path. Those who ignore their “prophecy” have a higher chance of choosing a completely different Destiny Line. The prophecy you’re talking about has exactly eight hundred and thirteen different interpretations, considering that it involves several different lives. Therefore, nothing really _happens_ to it, per se.” The man behind the desk returned to his papers. “Anything else?”

Harry was silent for several moments.

“How, exactly, does one go about ‘selling his soul’?”

The man behind the desk paused, and slowly put down his pen. He looked up at Harry and scrutinized him with those eerie black eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he said quietly. “As I said before, very rarely does any one soul have less than two thousand Destiny Lines. The less Destiny Lines one has, the more powerful the alterations their choices make. You only have twenty-six, beating the record by two hundred and eighty-three Lines. Your soul will be highly valued and it will most likely be centuries, if not millennia, before the auction ends. Do you understand the consequences, such as if the one who wins has standards that don’t exactly fit into your moral code that you will be stuck with your choice for the rest of eternity? And that this will only create even more paperwork for me?”

Harry nodded, and the man sighed in a mix of annoyance and resignation before wheeling over to a filing cabinet and digging through the contents of one of the drawers.

“Lucky for you, kid,” he grumbled in irritation as he dropped a thick stack of papers on the desk, “there’s no such thing as time in Purgatory.”

-

After the shock wore off, the rage kicked in. He was almost surprised at how long it had taken, considering how fast he had blown up at his friends not long after he’d turned fifteen. Then again, he surmised, he’d had a whole month to fester in his anger and unease, and not what felt like had only been a few hours since he’d… well, _died_.

He didn’t know what upset him more: that Dumbledore had completely and utterly screwed his life up, or that the prophecy was actually meaningless in the long run and his godfather, the only part of his family that actually cared about his well being, had died needlessly for misconceptions that could have easily been avoided.

Harry was incredibly pissed off. The room he’d been escorted to by a rather strange, little blue creature, could attest to that. His magic had responded to the overwhelming feelings of rage and despair coursing through him and had lashed out at the closest things available, which happened to be every piece of furniture in the room. Harry surveyed the damage and wondered if he would have to pay for it before he remembered that he was dead.

And then the fear kicked in.

What was he _thinking_? How could he possibly sell his _soul_ just to go back for a small amount of time to kill Voldemort? He could have gone back without doing so, they could have made it so that he’d survived his uncle’s attack. And maybe he _would_ have returned only a few years later when he died again under circumstances perpetrated by someone else’s decisions.

Would it be worth it? To give up the only chance he would have at a normal life to fulfill a duty he hadn’t wanted in the first place?

The faces of his friends flashed before his eyes. Hermione, Ron, Remus, Neville, Ginny…. How were they taking his death? Were they as frightened as he was, in that moment, wondering how they would live through a megalomaniac’s rampage through Wizarding Britain? Or were they more saddened to know that they would never see him again, that they would never be able to stand at his side, living the rest of their life without the comfort and familiarity their friendship had always offered?

And poor Neville… would he be forced to take Harry’s place in the war? Harry had wondered once what was worse, having parents who were dead, or parents who were so broken that they didn’t recognize their own son. For some reason, he had always thought the answer to that was easy – that Harry was the better off of the two. At least Harry, whose parents were gone from the world, could eventually find closure with their deaths. Neville would never have that, at least not for many years, always haunted by the fact that those he loved so desperately would never acknowledge him, would never really remember that he was there.

No, he couldn’t have gone back, he realized suddenly. It would only mean more of the same subtle manipulations of his life, the same slow destruction of his Destiny Lines as choices were made that were not his own. And there was no way in hell we could leave his loved ones behind to fight a war that should have been stopped before it could begin, despite the fact that it would mean he could start over with a clean slate, with a new life and new memories and a chance to make his own choices, for once.

Selling his soul to highest bidder, even if incredibly risky, would give him a little bit of both. He would be able to go back to destroy a man that had no right to live while at the same time thwarting Dumbledore’s control over his life, even if it meant that he would forever serve under a master that could possibly be worse than both of those men combined. He would have control over his own paths, or at least as much control as his new master would allow him. And really, in the end with everything considered, it wasn’t all that hard of a choice to make.

Now he would only have to live with it.

And live with it he did. The first one hundred years were probably the hardest to get through. He had discovered that it wasn’t that time didn’t _exist_ in Purgatory, it only meant that time was an insignificant factor in a world that could travel to any time period, possibility, and dimension it wished with only a thought. Time was, in essence, merely a tool that kept the mortal world from breaking apart at its very delicate seams. In the first one hundred years, he had met newly dead whom had come from nearly every type of eventuality, such as the woman who was half cat half human, who came from a time where human-kind had evolved differently, and the man who came from the time where not only was spaceflight a definite reality but whom hadn’t even lived on earth itself and in fact had never even been there.

After five centuries of living in Purgatory, Harry had realized that his concept of time was diminishing. Not having any type of calendar to use as a reference, he had stopped keeping track of how long he had been ‘dead’ some time before. In all actuality, it really wasn’t worth the effort of keeping track of something that had no real meaning in the world he now lived in.

Being a Wronged Soul who had chosen the third option wasn’t so much a rarity as Harry had first assumed it was. Hundreds upon hundreds of Wronged Souls had passed through purgatory within the first few hundred years and out of those many only a fourth, perhaps, chose to auction off their soul with the chance to avenge their deaths. Harry had noticed, however, how quickly their soul had been taken compared to his ever-lengthening wait.

He had only seen the man behind the desk once in all that time, when Harry was needed to sign the documents for the auction. Harry had asked the man why the others had disappeared so quickly after signing their much smaller pile of documents, and the answer left him somewhat bemused.

“The more Destiny Lines you have,” the man answered, “the less your soul is worth. Those other souls went through hundreds of paths before they arrived here. They sold their souls recklessly, not truly understanding that if they had chosen to go back they would have had hundreds of more choices to make that could have made their final death a lot better than it was. You are only given three choices when you arrive here, however in most cases they don’t really mean anything.

“Your situation is different, however. Considering you only had twenty-six Destiny Lines to begin with, those three choices would determine the outcome of something greater and more powerful than anything you will find here. The Destiny Line sub-division of the Destiny Department is only a fraction of its entire makeup.” The man looked at him seriously as Harry signed the last page of the document.

“You should feel very honored, kid, to know that your one choice and the outcome of your choice will forever determine how things are run from here on out.”

It was both humbling and daunting to know that he was solely responsible for the change in a power far greater than anything he could comprehend, so much so that he didn’t even bother trying to question why it was him that was chosen to make the change.

It was another three hundred years before Harry asked if he were allowed to see his own auction. Urg, the little blue creature whom had shown Harry to his room so long ago and had since been made his personal chauffeur, took him to the Soul Department of Purgatory where the auctions took place. It was there he learned that the process was more like a game than it was an auction. He wasn’t allowed into the actual room, but he was allowed into an observatory that reminded Harry very much of a movie theater he had gone to once, when he was very young and the Dursleys had yet to alienate him from his peers.

An entire wall was dedicated to observing the auction. It was either a very large screen or a very large window; either way, he could see clearly the room in which there must have been hundreds of beings gathered around a large circle table that was low to the ground covered in symbols and shapes painted in a variety of colors. The beings, deities Harry assumed, threw all manner of things onto the table, which were either left there for a moment or immediately snatched up by another.

Harry spent what felt to him like months (and in fact probably was) trying to figure out how the game was played, or at least some sort of system to it. The most he could figure out, however, is that every player had a certain amount of what looked like dice with numerous facets, and after a series of events that Harry couldn’t quite comprehend, they either lost the dice or kept them. If they lost the dice, they disappeared and someone else took their place; if they kept them… well, then they had more dice. He didn’t really understand it at all, and it wasn’t as though Urg could explain it to him either, seeing as Urg either couldn’t speak, didn’t know how, or didn’t speak a language Harry understood.

It was then Harry understood why no one ever bothered to watch the auctions. Unless you knew how the game was played – which you didn’t, unless you were a player – then it was simply too boring to waste your time with. So he gave it up for a lost cause and decided to spend his time doing something else.

It wasn’t until the end of his fourth millennia in Purgatory that he realized the full extent of his auction, because by then it was finally coming down to a conclusion. He had changed greatly in the thousands of years he had been waiting, growing in awareness and knowledge of his position in Purgatory and the beings and gods that ran it. Each department in Purgatory had dozens of deities running it, and in fact he had met a few whom helped to run the Destiny Department, as well as a few from other departments that had come around for some reason or other.

It wasn’t until after he had learned that his soul had finally been won that he noticed a difference in the way he was being treated in the department. Before, he was simply seen as a soul being auctioned off to the highest bidder in a power play that had been going on for billions of years, even if his one soul was highly valued. After its conclusion, others would move out of his way as he walked down a hall or simply stop and stare at him in a mixture of awe and fear. Even the newly dead would react to his presence, even though they had no idea who he was.

Of course, he was used to staring. He had gotten used to it while still alive, and even though it had been more than four thousand years since that time, it was still something that didn't faze him.

At the moment, however, being stared at wasn't his biggest problem. Once again he met with the man in the black suit whom he had met upon arrival, only this time it was so he could sign the paperwork that came with being "bought". No, his biggest problem was that now that he was "owned" so to speak, he had to give up Urg, the little blue demon that had been his companion for close to five thousand years.

"The Kitork Demons are only here to cater to the souls of the dead who have a long wait in Purgatory," said the man with a scowl. "Now that someone owns you, it is to be recycled to another soul. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, "You can't take it with you"?"

"But I _like_ Urg," Harry protested. "He doesn't look at me as though I'd asked him a stupid question when I ask him stupid questions. Besides, I'm already dead, and that saying only counts if you're alive."

"You gave it a _name_?" Harry sniffed.

"Of course I didn't give _him_ a name." He twirled the pen between his fingers and looked askance at the wall, his cheeks fairly pink. "I asked Lisa in reception." He then smirked. "I also asked her for _your_ name... _Meredith_."

The man's breath exploded in a sigh.

"Fine! Keep it! Don't come crying to me when your new owners makes you give it back!"

Harry gave him a smug look and signed the papers.

'Meredith' growled. "You meet with them at four. Now get out!"

Harry left the office with a swagger before stopping halfway down the hall.

"Wait. _Owners_ , as in plural?" He looked down at Urg, who had appeared at his side the moment the door closed behind him. "I think I bit off more than I can chew," he commented plaintively.

Urg only stared at him.


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

**-**

The sky was dull and grey, and perfectly matching the mood of the house. A storm waged against the windows, making the glass shudder in its frame. Aside from the rolls of thunder and the creaking roof, that was the only sound in the house. Otherwise it was completely silent.

Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the room only a bit brighter than the candles were able, throwing her face into relief. Hermione watched it, staring with listless eyes at the bowing trees. The room dulled, and the candle next to her bringing out the unusual lines on her face for her age, made from stress and constant worry. Although her face was blank and emotionless, her mind whirred with thought after thought. She once held her intelligence with high esteem... now she cursed it, for her mind would never let her rest.

It was one year to the day since Harry had died under the hands of his ruthless uncle. That wasn't the only change in her world since she had been able to call herself a naive child, but it was the biggest. After he died, the world started losing hope and Voldemort began to gain. If she was honest, she was starting to lose hope too.

Hogwarts was closed. The Burrow was gone. Grimmauld Place was compromised. The Ministry was this close to being run by Death Eaters. The Order was torn apart. They had lost so many.

Arthur, Mad-Eye, Charlie, Percy, Remus, Professor Sprout, Professor Hooch, Diggle, Jones, Dodge, Podmore. Even Fletcher, though that was no loss. Dumbledore was gone - ironically of a heart attack, which caused him to fall down the stairs and hit his head hard enough to put him in a coma. Kingsley ran the Order, what was left of it anyway. It was fuller of the new generation than the old, for many of those who weren't dead were simply too old to fight on the front lines anymore.

With the Burrow gone, destroyed in the fight that had killed the three Weasleys, Molly moved her remaining children into a repaired Shrieking Shack in the ruins of Hogsmeade, also doubling as the new Headquarters. Dumbledore and Flitwick, working with Bill, had been able to place heavy protection on the decrepit house only weeks before the Headmaster's accident. Neville, heavily scarred and missing an eye from his fight with Rodolphus Lestrange, was one of the Secret Keepers, with Molly being the other. She was not a front-line fighter, so even if Neville fell, she would be safe back at the Shack along with their Secret.

With both Dumbledore and Harry gone, the people had turned to the only one seemingly putting a dent in _His_ forces, the one known only as the Midnight Vigilante. No one knew who it was, and no amount of cajoling, threatening, bargaining, mocking, and pleading had made them show themselves. The Midnight Vigilante would merely appeared during the night, kill several Death Eaters at a time, and then disappear at the light of day, sometimes leaving a message behind but never any clues as to whom it could be.

Although _His_ army was slowly whittled away by who knows who over the past seven months, He was still getting more and more powerful every day, Muggles dying by the hundreds.

Hermione looked behind her at the bed that housed her sleeping husband of only a few weeks, and at her flat belly beneath her hand. She raised her eyes to look out of the window again.

Wasn't impending motherhood supposed to be a joyful time?

She didn't even realize she was crying.

-

"Oh, well would you look at this? What an interesting gathering." Pure golden eyes glowed brightly in the darkness lit only by the light of the moon. "Everyone I planned on meeting tonight, and even some I didn't, all together in one place. How very convenient."

The dozen or so black-robed figures moved uneasily, wands lit and held into the air, eyes hidden behind bone-white masks searching futilely in the dark. Most of them were obviously hopeful recruits, as shown by their smaller statures and shaking hands. Being as they were just outside of one of the smaller Muggle towns, this was apparently an initiation of sorts. To fill the gaps created by their Lord's newest pest most likely.

"Show yourself," a harsh voice demanded, coming from one of the larger of the figures.

"Hm. Nah. This is the only time I can play, really, so I try to make it last. Besides, watching the little Eaters-to-be squirm is rather fun." The eight hopefuls stiffened at the mocking tone, their hands steadier. "I must say that the so-called Dark Lord seems to be drawing from smaller pools, isn't he? This is the weakest batch I've seen yet. Rather useless, really. I bet they couldn't manage to hurt a dead fly."

" _Crucio_!" A beam of red light lanced out, dissipating into nothing but sparks as it hit a wild thorn bush.

"You missed," the voice remarked lazily. "Pity. That would have made you first." The recruit whom had shot the spell off trembled.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, you mean you haven't guessed?" The eyes and voice came from behind them this time, making them whirl around rather comically to face it. "I believe the papers are calling me the Midnight Vigilante. What a clichéd moniker. I prefer The Hunter, myself." The acrid smell of urine filled the air, and two of the hopefuls disappeared in the crack of Apparition. "Damnit. I hate when they run." The Hunter sighed despondently. "But what can you do?"

Wicked laughter echoed in the clearing. The remaining Death Eaters wished briefly that they’d had the sense to run while they could, but it wasn’t long before they couldn’t think anything at all.

-

 ** _Midnight Massacre_** _  
_Jorgen Bloomsager _reports_

_After nearly two weeks of silence, another twenty are dead this morning, states the final report from the Ministry of Magic’s Auror Division. In an unusually bloodless display from the one known as the Midnight Vigilante, bodies of young witches and wizards appeared overnight in St. Mungo’s morgue. Although intact, St. Mungo’s lead mortician went on record to say, “The bodies were twisted and mangled. Several had major internal damage, to say nothing of the damage to the skeletal structure. The bones were separated internally without breaking the skin, and at least two of the bodies had complete skeletal shattering. The youngest of the group was seventeen.”_

_Has the vigilante tired of killing trained Death Eaters? According to Lead Auror Investigator, Markus Durham, the new massacre consisted entirely of a Death Eater recruit team lead by five senior members of the Dark Forces, most likely interrupted during initiation._

_Already rumors are circulating through the Alley, presumably from an unknown recruit who was able to escape the massacre. Rumors of a dark voice that spoke before the atrocities commenced, mocking them with ease. Of what sources now claim is an unknown man who calls himself The Hunter._

_Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour has gone on record to say that the capture of the Midnight Vigilante, now known as The Hunter, is among one of their top priorities. A reward has been offered for the capture of this unknown man for interrogation by the Auror forces._

_But the question now is whether The Hunter can be captured, and if so, would those who are allied against the Dark Forces divert some of their attention to this no doubt difficult task?_

_Only time will tell._

-

The sound of china clinking against metal and of wood creaking from age and ware was overpowered only by the sounds of the heated whispered arguments that floated throughout the room.

“We can’t spare the forces!” The loud shout caused a sudden hush over the room as eyes turned to see the commotion.

“The bastard needs to be stopped!” Ron grit his teeth, glaring fiercely across the table at Neville; Neville, himself, kept his head high and his stance firm, eyes locked on his old housemate.

“I understand where you’re coming from, Ron, but we can’t spare anyone to go on a fruitless search for a man who, however deplorable his methods, is actually aiding us by cutting down His forces. After this is over we can look for whoever this Hunter is, but right now he have little enough man power as it is.”

Ron growled, looking around the room for support. He was dismayed to find that less than third seemed to agree with him. The rest were either nodding in agreement with Neville’s words, or looking uncomfortable, hesitant to pick a side between one of their lead defenders and Secret Keepers and their main strategist.

“I don’t believe this! This guy is making a fool of us all, and all of you seem happy to let him do it! He’s basically mocking us, showing off that he’s managed ten times the damage to His forces in a month than we’ve been able to do in over a year. Do none of you care about that?”

“Ron.” He turned at his wife’s quiet call. Hermione wasn’t looking at him, but staring down at the wooden table will dull eyes. “Neville is right. We can’t spare anyone to hunt down a man that no one has even seen.” She looked up then, eyes rimmed pink and dark from sleepless nights and weary tears. “I can’t condone his methods. He’s hurting innocent people with his displays, causing panic and fear despite whatever his true intentions may be. However, he is helping us, in a horrible round-about way. We have to let it stand for now.”

“Hermione, how can you even say that?” Ron fisted his hands upon the table, his eyes hard and unyielding. “You say you can’t condone his actions, but you agree that he should be left alone to do as he wishes?”

Hermione closed her eyes, tears falling down her face, her pain etched for all to see.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted. Silence followed her announcement, astonished eyes turning towards her now. “Eight weeks.”

“Hermione,” Ron breathed. His hand reached out to clasp hers, clutching it like a lifeline. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I couldn’t.” She sobbed, her body trembling forcefully. “I wasn’t sure until…. Please, Ron, let this man be for now. I don’t want to raise our child in war! I don’t want to have raise it in fear and pain and suffering. This Hunter is helping for now, doing what we can’t. And why shouldn’t we let him? He’s powerful enough to evade capture, powerful enough to take down dozens of them at a time! His actions, horrible and unforgivable, could help us to end this for good. Please, Ron, I can’t…. We’ve already lost so many, I can’t lose my baby too!” She collapsed into his arms, broken and crying uncontrollably. Ron clutched at her back, drawing her face into his shoulder as she cried herself into a fitful sleep.

In the hush that followed her impassioned speech, Ron looked up at Neville, eyes dark and dull.

“Fine,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll do it his way for now.” He picked his wife up into his arms and carried her to their room, all the while watched by all he left behind as the room was shrouded in an all-encompassing silence.

-

“You know, this is starting to get dull.” Golden eyes stared absently at a plain white wall. A small rubber ball appeared from nothing and landed in a slim, tan hand.

The ball made soft thudding noises as it bounced against a hardwood floor a few times, then – thud, _thud_. Thud, _thud_. Thud, _thud_.

The rhythm repeated as the ball bounced off of the floor and the wall, landing in the same slim, tan hand, only to be repeated once more.

Black eyes stared at him stoically.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You can’t deny this is dull. Mister Lord Air-For-Brains is keeping all my shinier, funner toys away from me and is instead sending out the dull, useless ones. Such a waste of life, though. If only those snot-nosed little urchins had realized already that ole’ Flight From Death isn’t going to win… although, since the Aurors are incompetent, and the Order doesn’t seem to be doing much better, I’m not surprised.”

A slow blink.

“You know, you’re right. I have drawn this out long enough, I suppose. Might as well just off the bastard before one of the Ladies gets impatient and does it for me to force me to get back to work. I’m kind of going to miss this place, though. Only place I can get a decent cup of tea.” There was a pause, and a chair rocked back and forth. “Too bad, though, that I can’t say goodbye.”

A head-tilt.

“What, really? You think I should?” Silence. “Huh. Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt anything. Who do you think I should go as? Me, or me?”

A blank stare.

“What? It’s a valid question, I’ll have you know. All righty, then. Guess I’m off to see the big, bad Shack. Ah, memories…. Ooh, I wonder if anyone will try to kill me right off the bat, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

Silence.

“…You know, you really could do with a sense of humor.”

-

The humming was unusual. The clinking and rustling coming from the kitchen at two in the morning was not, but the humming – that was new. Hermione paused at the bottom of the steps, wand clenched tightly in her fist.

All the others in the house had long since gone to bed – the ones who were not off on missions or elsewhere, at any rate. As the last to have gone to bed, she knew this to be true. None of the members away were due back for several days. Bill was still in France, visiting Fleur and in negotiations with the indigenous pure and half Veela. Tonks and Kingsley were at the ministry on night shift. Zacharias and Cormac were still in America, trying to gain support there. Everyone else were either upstairs sleeping, or at their own homes.

The sound of a chair scraping lightly against the floor snapped her out of her reverie. She swallowed heavily and made a quick decision. Whoever this was, was either powerful enough to get through the Fidelius, or was a member who had returned for some reason or other. Somehow, she didn’t think it was the latter. She steeled her resolve. Good or bad, it was too late now. They were already inside. She drew herself up, activated the silent alarm charms placed throughout the Shack, clenched her wand firmly, and stepped into the kitchen.

The sight that greeted her was not what she expected.

A man of about twenty-five was sitting in the chair at the head of the table, facing the door. His boot clad feet were crossed at the ankles atop the table, chair leaning back so that only two legs remained on the floor. He held a steaming cup of what Hermione presumed was tea, given the still steaming kettle on the stove. He was dressed in Muggle clothes; dark slacks, black button-up shirt. He had what seemed to be a solid gold whip coiled through a belt loop, and she counted no less than four other Muggle weapons – including what looked to be a rather dangerous serrated dagger.

Most fascinating, however, were his eyes. Pools of swirling, molten gold surrounded by wisps of ink black hair that went just past the nape of his neck, set in a striking face. She felt frozen into place as they stared straight into hers. With an amused smirk and a raise of his teacup, the stranger broke the silence.

“Tea?” Hermione stared blankly at him. He cocked his head to the side and gestured vaguely to the stove. “Made it fresh.” He sighed when she still didn’t move. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

Even if she had wanted to, she was stopped from answering as a red streak of light flew past her in a direct line for the intruder. Relief filled her as Ron appeared at her side, a dark look directed at the man, and Neville stepped past them both into the kitchen, the dim light making his scarring stand out more than usual, giving him a daunting air. Out of the corner of her eye she could see more Order members descending the staircase, tense and wands at the ready.

Her breath caught. The spell seemed to stop in midair for a scant second before fizzling into nothing. Neville’s glare narrowed, and his wand flicked several times. The next five spells met the same fate.

“Quite a welcome you have there,” the man said dryly, sipping at his tea. “Tea?”

Neville’s teeth clenched. “Who are you?” he snapped. “How did you get in here and what do you want?”

“No one of consequence, really,” the man said, moving his hand as if to wave the question away. “I can find anything, if I know what I’m looking for, so that fancy little secret spell doesn’t really work on me. As for what I want?” He put a hand to his chin, looking up at the ceiling in mock thoughtfulness as he rocked his chair back. “Chocolate biscuits. Some cinnamon for this tea. Snake Lord’s head on a platter. You know, what any person wants, really.” He lifted his cup in a salute and took a sip. He then frowned at the remaining liquid and looked up. “ _Do_ you have any cinnamon?”

Neville growled. “What is your purpose here?”

The man stared at him for a moment, a calculating look on his face. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he said a last. A wand appeared in his hand out of nowhere. A swift flick had all the remaining chairs pulled away from the table, ready for seating. “Your friends in the hall should join us too.”

Neville stomped across the room at sat at the chair at the end of the table, directly across from the stranger. Other than keeping his want trained on him, Neville made no further moves. Hermione exchanged a look with her husband before they followed, sitting to one side of their de facto leader. With Kingsley at the ministry, Neville would make all the decisions. Slowly, but surely, the rest followed, some sitting, others choosing to stand at the back of the room. Not one of them had lowered their wands.

“Please,” Hermione said softly. “Who are you?” The hard look in the man’s gold eyes softened slightly as they rested on her.

“My name doesn’t matter,” he answered, standing up. He ignored the tensing of those in the room as he moved around, fetching another cup and saucer from the cupboard. “I haven’t used it for a long time, after all. I don’t rightly know if I ever will again. Sad, really.” He went about setting up another cup of tea, which he placed in front of her. Absently, she took a sip, despite her husband’s frantic attempt to stop her, and looked down at it in surprise. Dash of cream, three sugars – exactly how she liked it.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” he said almost in exasperation. “Honestly, if I wanted any of you dead, you’d be so by now.” He filled his own cup and went rooting through the cupboards, exclaiming in triumph after a moment. “Aha! Cinnamon.” He looked very smug as he sat back down and shook a liberal amount into his cup.

“What are we to call you, then?” Ron asked coldly, glaring daggers at him.

“Well.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, stirring the spice into his tea absently with his wand. Hermione watched the movement with wide eyes. “I suppose you may call me Hunter.” A grin curled his lips, gold eyes gazing heavy-lidded at those in the room.

“The Hunter!” Neville hissed, jumping up. Almost as one, several spells shot across the room, sparks shoot haphazardly as they met the invisible shield and fizzled out in mid-air. The amused look on the Hunter’s face only served to enrage them all the more. This went on for several more minutes, the kitchen filling with light and smoke.

Finally, Hermione had enough.

“Stop! _Stop_!” She stood up from her chair, hands fisted at her side. “Enough already! It’s useless, pointless, and you’re _going to set the house on fire_!”

The spellfire ceased, members looking at her one by one in a mixture of shock and wariness. It was understandable. It was the first time Hermione’s temper had erupted in months; a long time since she’d shown any emotion but misery and exhaustion.

“There will be no more of that,” she said firmly, sitting down once more. “Whoever he is, he’s already proven he’s not going to hurt us. Let’s just settle down and listen to what he has to say.” The Hunter grinned at her.

“Thank you, Hermione.” Her eyes widened at him in shock.

“How do you know her name?” Ron growled, an arm wrapping possessively around his wife’s waist.

“I know who all of you are,” Hunter answered, sitting back in his chair nonchalantly. “Well, most of you, anyway.” He eyed a few of the people in the back of the room. “It may have been a very long time for me, but I made it a point to remember you.”

“What do you mean?” Neville asked with narrowed eyes.

“He means that for him, he’s been gone for a long time.”

All eyes turned to the doorway. Luna gazed back at them with her wide, silvery eyes, a strand of blond hair twirled around her finger, and blinked.

“Good morning,” she said. “Are we having breakfast early?”

Hunter threw his head back and laughed, receiving startled looks from more than half the room. He grinned at her, patting the place next to him.

“Come join the party, Luna old girl! Tea?”

“Oh, yes please,” she answered, taking the offered seat. “No cream, five sugars.”

“Absolutely!” The only sound in the room was the preparation of tea; the Order could only stare, wordless, as the Hunter and Luna settled themselves at the end of the table like two old friends. “Here you are then, love.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Luna… what….” For the first time that evening, Neville lost his unflappable cool, staring at her in astonishment.

“You’re going to catch flies, leaving your mouth open like that,” Hunter said absently. Neville’s mouth shut with a loud click.

“It’s impossible,” Hermione murmured, staring at him with glazed eyes. “Completely impossible… but I only know one person who made their tea that way… but it’s impossible!” She began to shake, her words becoming hysterical. “It was open-casket. We _saw_ you bury. You were _dead_!”

“Breathe, Hermione,” Hunter soothed, going as close to her as her husband’s wand permitted. “It’s all right. Breathe.” She inhaled shakily, looking at him with tear-filled eyes.

“Harry’s dead,” she whispered. “You’re dead.”

“Yes,” Hunter smiled at her sadly, even as wands were lowered or dropped in shock, “I am.”

‘Have you gone _mad_?” Ron exploded. “There’s no way this arsehole is Harry! Harry’s _dead_ , Hermione! We were there when they buried him!”

“I know that!” she snapped back.

“But the Ladies sent him back.” Luna hummed merrily, swinging her feet back and forth in the chair as she nursed her tea. “His job wasn’t finished.” Her eerie eyes gazed at them. “They only sent him back for a little while, though.”

“She’s right.” Hunter – Harry – stood up fully. He placed his hands in his pockets with an absent shrug. “I don’t have much longer here before they take me back. Really, I only came to say goodbye. I didn’t get a chance to last time.” He looked around the room, at the people he had once known and the few he didn’t, before turning his eyes back to his two oldest and greatest friends. “I also wanted to say I was sorry. For leaving you how I did.”

“It wasn’t your fault!” Hermione snapped, standing up abruptly.

“Dying – no, that wasn’t my fault. But not living… yes. I made my choice, and this is the result. I wasn’t going to come here – even if I did want to say goodbye. It wasn’t part of the plan. However, playtime is over and it’s time for me to finish what Tom Riddle started. Which I’m going to do tonight.” Hermione looked stricken.

“But… but I have so many questions! How are you here? Was it really you who killed those people? Did you do all those horrible things? Please,” she begged, “please, explain this to me!”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, golden eyes swirling. He sighed. “All right.”

He sat down, and told them a six thousand year-old story.

-

Voldemort raged. Follower after follower fell screaming to the floor as he released his fury upon them. Over and over again he was outsmarted by The Hunter, his forces culled in crippling waves. Each time, the cretin showed up and decimated his servants with humiliating ease, send them out in messages to mock him. None of his followers could tell him anything about this man, for all who’d gone after him had returned… in pieces.

His rage was cut short as the doors to the antechamber were thrown open, a golden flash following a sound like a firework. Voldemort and his servants stared at the man who strode in calmly, one hand in his pocket, one clutching a pure gold whip, coiled against his shoulder.

In the dim light, gold eyes flashed maliciously.

“Hello, Tom. I have a little score to settle with you.”

-

At exactly eleven forty on the morning of September the twenty-first, one year and two months after the death of Harry Potter, eight months since the Second Great War started in earnest, a large silver box, tied with a red ribbon and a note, appeared on the desk of the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. At eleven forty-five, a small contingent of Aurors were sent out to validate the letter’s claim. At noon exactly, the press was notified, and by three that afternoon, almost every witch and wizard in Europe had received a special edition copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

The headlines read thus:

**_You-Know-Who Destroyed! Nameless Hunter Saves Wizarding Kind!_ **

-

Harry fidget nervously before the door, wondering where his Gryffindor courage had flittered off to in his forty-eight hundred years in Purgatory. His hand twitched, almost reflexively, towards the doorknob. He flinched as Urg nudged him from behind, and gave the demon a brief scowl.

“Four o’clock, he says,” he muttered under his breath. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to know when exactly that is, considering there’s not a single bloody clock in this entire bloody dimension?” Of course, he well knew that he was on time – or had been, at the very least, considering how long he’d been hemming and hawing in front of the door – seeing as Urg was the one who had lead him there. Urg had always known where to take him, and when to be there… as was his purpose.

Urg, well-used to his bitching by now, nudged him again.

“Fine! I’m going, already!” Steeling himself, Harry put his hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Only to stop. And stare. And perhaps wonder if Urg had been wrong about where to take him for the first time in… well, ever.

Three old women awaited him in a dimly lit room. They didn’t look up from what they were doing when the door opened, giving him time to observe them.

The first woman, who looked to be the youngest of the three, sat at an old spinning wheel, spinning what looked like strands of delicate silver thread from a tall distaff leaning against her shoulder. The strands sparked eerily in the dim light, spinning slowly on the old wheel that clicked gently with every turn. At the other end of the spinning wheel sat the second woman, who took those strands with thin, delicate fingers, measuring them against what looked to be a thick wand or a really thin staff. As the thread wound around her rod, they turned into molten gold and drew thick and strait. These pieces, some short, others long, were placed into an ornate woven basket at her feet, filled to the brim with thousands more of the thin gold sticks. The last woman, easily the eldest for all that her back was turned to him, seemed to reach haphazardly into the basket, drawing gold thread after gold threat, each glittering, mesmerizing golden strand held up to her eyes and peered at critically before, with a resounding snick of thick, silver scissors, the thread was cut with a sound of finality.

As Harry stood there, it dawned on him just whom he was standing before.

The Three Sisters. The Norns, the Parcae, the Moirae, _the bloody **Fates**_ had won his soul. How ironic was that? His life, ruled by destiny, and the weaver and the measurer and the ender of that life had played the game _for his soul_.

“Close the door, child.”

Harry jumped, not realizing how lost in his thoughts he had become, and quickly shut the door behind him. Hesitantly, he stepped forward toward the women, who did not look up as he neared.

“An interesting case, you are.”

“Yes, an interesting case.”

The three women turned to look at him then, and he had to stifle a shiver at their glowing, colorless eyes. They gazed upon him for long moments, before speaking again, in a way that reminded Harry of a certain pair of twins, so long ago as that may have been. They spoke almost as one, continuing and completing each other’s sentences as though they were of one mind, of one thought. He found it creepy.

“We see you know who we are, child.” They stared at him expectantly, then. He stared back.

“Um… yes?” Somehow, he thought they looked amused, and that scared him for reasons he couldn’t understand. “You’re the Fates.”

“Yes, child, that is one of our many names. We are Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. Just as those are one of our many names.”

As each spoke their name, they stood, stepping closer to him slowly. He stiffened as they circled him, feeling like carrion in a desert with hungry hyenas about. With each step, their age seemed to melt away, wrinkles and pockets smoothing; melasma fading, paling into creamy skin. Their worn, faded clothing centuries old seemed to _shift_ , and move, and lift, turning into delicate silk and lace that seemed to float as if woven form the very air. He blinked, or it seemed as though he must, for next he looked there were flower garlands in their hair. Their eyes, however, remained the same, unending white filled with burning lights.

Oh, he knew who they were all right. Anyone who spent a long time in Purgatory would hear of them eventually. The Fates where spoken of in hushed whispers, in dark corners, eyes shifting about as though their very mention could summon them. They were revered as much as they were feared, mentioned in awe and wonder. They were the First, the Originals. They created life and death, and thus _were_ life and death. They were beyond even the touch of the gods, likewise awed and feared by them, for without the Fates, the gods would not exist.

They were the only true Immortals. A force unto themselves.

He also knew they had never before joined the Auction.

He watched them, then, dread giving way to curiosity. The three women, looking now young and beautiful all, circled him still, surveying him and murmuring too quietly to each other for him to understand, touching his arms as though admiring a piece of art.

“Why me?”

They stilled, gazing at him with those eerie eyes.

“Come with us.” The youngest – Clotho, he thought – grasped his hand lightly, tugging him to follow them deeper into the room.

Sconces lit as they walked, revealing the room to be more vast than he had originally assumed, lighting up shelves and chests and drawers. They drew close to a case of glass and silver, markings and runes carved along the edges. Inside the case, on many separated shelves, were small, delicate glass stands, each holding its own golden thread, only different to the ones from before. There were only a handful of them, perhaps six or seven at the most, but these were _different_. Woven within the gold seemed to be strands of silver, looking thicker yet somehow more delicate than the golden strands Atropos had snipped.

“What do you see, child?”

“Yes, what do you see?”

Harry looked at them uncertainly, then back into the case. “I see golden threads, with bits of silver.” The sisters exchanged looks between them.

“That won’t do.”

“Oh no, that won’t do at all.”

“This may hurt a bit.” And before Harry could do more than flinch, Atropos had lifted a glowing hand and placed it over his eyes.

Harry screamed. It felt as though his eyes were melting in his head. He pulled away from the Fate’s hand, clawing at his face. The burning stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving him hunched on the floor, wiping what he was sure had to be the leftover remains of his eyes from his cheeks. Slowly, he opened his eyelids, expecting darkness, only to flinch and squeeze his eyes shut from the blinding light.

It took a moment for the spots dancing behind his eyelids to fade, and he blinked his eyes open again, looking up at the sisters who stared down at him with faces blank yet somehow amused.

“What did you do?” he asked, voice hoarse from his screams.

“You could not see with eyes as yours were. Mortal eyes.”

“Mortal eyes were not meant to see the powers of the gods.”

“Look again, child. Tell us what you see.”

Harry stood slowly and approached the case, seeing part of his reflection in the glass. He gasped, a hand rising to trace the undersides of his eyes. Where once were green irises, his mother’s eyes, were now pupil-less pools of swirling, molten gold. His attention was taken away from his reflection as he gazed within the case again. Before, he could only see simple golden threads – now the threads shimmered, and glowed in pulsating white light, energy waving and flowing about them. What he thought were glimpses of silver were really shards of glittering diamonds and opals, a myriad of colors shimmering upon the surface.

“What are they?” He leaned closer to the case, entranced by the dancing mists.

“These are the Lifestrings of the few that are worthy. Special beings that hold importance in our worlds.”

“Few hold this honor, this privilege. The lives of those within this case are kept separate from all other entities, so that they may continue in longevity to do the duties we have set them to.”

“Look there, our chosen – above you.”

Harry looked up, at a golden strand higher than the rest, and also different. This strand held the same shards of precious stone as the others, however, a single, continuous loop of shining obsidian surrounded the strand, capping it at its ends.

“That is yours, child.”

He turned to them in shock.

“What… why?” He clutched his hair in frustration. “Why me? I was told you three never joined the auctions, never played – that souls were useless to you. Why now? Why me?”

The sisters laughed.

“It is simple, child. You are unique – your soul is unique. When we shaped you, we did not realize we were putting within you our wishes, our weariness, our hopes, and our fears. We knew, the moment Lachesis held your Lifestring within her hands that you were ours, that you belonged to us.”

"It is our duty to cut the strings of fate and life. It is the same for the gods, however at the same time it is different. The gods carry their strings within them, within their very souls. When their twine is cut, it is reformed into a new god. After all, there can only be so many.”

“The gods are forgetting their purposes, becoming too numerous. If this continues, they shall over take us all and a war of great proportions may erupt. It could mean the end of all life. They know that we do not venture from our home, and they would not dare come here. We three are too old, too busy to bother chasing them down.”

“We needed a warrior – a hunter – one who could do this job for us.”

"That, our vassal, is what you are for. You have so few Destiny Lines that this will make it easier for us, and you are the only one in existence we crafted with a number small enough. Because of your fewer lines, you have the ability to affect _change_. And now, you have but two Lines left.”

“We we need you to retrieve the errant deities whom have outlived their purpose and bring them here, so that we may retrieve their strings. In return, we will gift you with the power and strength necessary to bring the gods back, train you in their use. After all, if the god were to be stronger than you then you would not be able to fulfill your job and you would be useless to us.”

“Will will also grant you the return to your time, your world, to exact your vengeance on those who have wronged you.”

"You have a choice to make, our chosen. You could help us willingly, living an eternal life of power and glory, the salvation of the world you left behind - or we can erase your consciousness and reshape it to our own use, leaving your world to ruin. Which would you prefer?"

Harry thought for a moment. He breathed deeply, taking this all in, or as much of it as he could. He knew he would spend a great deal of time later, when he returned to his rooms, letting it sink in. It would be a while before he fully understood the gravity of what he was about to do, but he figured, in the end it would be worth it. He just had to get one thing clear first.

"Will you let me keep Urg?" The sisters exchanged looks and looked at the Kitork Demon standing a step behind him to the side, silent and nearly forgotten.

"You may keep it."

"Then okay. I'll hunt gods for you. Sounds like fun."

Harry shivered at the identical eerie smiles on the faces of the three women before him, suddenly feeling not-so assured with his decision.

-

**Epilogue**

"You can't hide from me, Tiburtus! What the hell was Lachesis thinking, creating a god of a river anyway? It's a fecking river! It's not even a _big_ river!"

Harry cursed again as yet another bush in the Forest of Silver Trees latched onto his sleeve and caught.

"Those sisters had better pay my tailoring bill," he muttered, unhooking the black thorn from his coat. He stomped the rest of the way towards where he felt the so-called god hiding, which just so happened to be.... "A _well_? Good gods, man, you must be desperate!" A voice echoed up from inside, as well as a torrent of water. Harry scowled, pissed off and completely soaked.

"I will not let thee carry me off towards my ill-deserved fate, ye beast of burden! Ye horrid hunter of thine eternal!"

"Oh, cut the crap. And you're paying for a new shirt! This was my _favorite shirt_." He took a glowing golden whip from his belt and cracked it on the inside of the well, getting a muffled "Ow!" as the whip went taut. Harry yanked the seething god up from the well, and scowled at him fiercely.

"If you morons wouldn't _run_ , I would have to waste my time hunting you. Now come on, I'm late to a poker game." Harry turned and followed the path out of the forest, dragging a cursing and yelling river god behind him.

"I should have just stayed dead," he complained to a following Urg for the thirty-six thousand, seven hundred and fifty-ninth time since he agreed to the job. “Sure, I’ll hunt demons for you,” he said mockingly. “Sounds like fun. Bah!” He threw his arms into the air, making the runaway river god yelp as he was accidentally yanked forward. “If I ever meet myself, I’m going to hit me over the head with a brick and hang me with my own whip for agreeing to such a stupid, annoying, _clothes destroying_ task!”

Behind his back, Urg rolled his eyes at his bitching and followed along in anticipation of his poker winnings. His charge really, really sucked at poker.

**The End**


End file.
